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MR. AND MRS. HALDEMAN-JULIUS 


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HALDEMAN - J ULIUS COMPANY 
GIRARD, KANSAS 

















































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FIVE CENT POCKET SERIES NO. 334 

Edited by E. Haldeman-Julius 


Caught 

and 

Dreams and Compound 
Interest 

Mr. and Mrs. Haldeman-Julius 

(Reprinted from The Atlantic Monthly.) 



HALDEMAN-JULIUS COMPANY 
GIRARD, KANSAS 

c. ' ‘ * t d 



Copyright, 1923. 

Mr. and Mrs. Haldeman-Julius. 



OCT 13 ’23 


* 


©C1A761U5 


CAUGHT 

i 

and 

DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 




CAUGHT 


i 

To understand why Gordon Hamilton, half- 
baked author of still unwritten masterpieces, 
youngster of twenty-five, who knew a little 
about everything and a great deal about little 
—to understand why Gordon decided to shake 
the star-dust from his soul and leave his world 
of phrases, poems, and pigments for near-vis¬ 
ioned, close-fisted Kansas, to be a Pagan in the 
mazes of Presbyterianism, romanticist in a 
world of realism, blower of bubbles in a stone- 
quarry—to understand this, one must give heed 
to Sylvia. 

Sylvia’s soft, golden hair was bobbed; her 
laughter had a merry lilt; the round, child-like, 
violet eyes were fringed with heavy, curling 
lashes, and in the soft fabrics dyed by her own 
rosy fingers into rare, intoxicating colors, she 
seemed like some dainty creature who had 
strayed from fairyland. Her brilliant loveli¬ 
ness completely captured the sensitive, beauty- 
worshiping youth. And when, just as everyone 
thought he had nearly won her, she suddenly 


6 


CAUGHT 


veered to his own chum and shack-mate, Oliver 
Mercer, who dabbled in oils and played the piano, 
Radnor-by-the-Sea became impossible for Gor¬ 
don. He felt that he must go away from Cali¬ 
fornia, far away from Sylvia and Oliver and 
from the colony of friends who knew of his 
bitter disappointment. 

His first thought was of Radnor-by-the-Sea’s 
great-aunt, Greenwich Village; but in Fallon, 
Kansas, a job was waiting for him on the 
Middle West’s most popular weekly. In fact, 
between unfinished novels, Gordon had made 
his living for several years by writing many 
of this paper’s editorials, for which he received 
five dollars a column (set in eight-point solid, 
eighteen ems wide), and frequent invitations 
to come to Fallon for steady work at thirty dol¬ 
lars a week, with—important item—traveling 
expenses included. Radnor-by-the-Sea, with its 
vaulting ambitions, self-consumed with talk, 
was caviar and pretzels; the Midland Weekly, 
with its large circulation and medical ads, was 
a thick slice of bread and butter. Heavy of 
heart and weary of spirit, Gordon purchased 
his ticket. 

‘But what on earth will you do in Fallon?' 
demanded Oliver, stirred into making an un¬ 
welcome call. 


CAUGHT 


7 


‘Work,’ Gordon answered stiffly. 

‘I certainly can’t imagine one doing anything 
else in Kansas. You know, of course, that a 
wretch found with a bottle of beer may receive 
a more severe sentence than that given to the 
gentleman who kills his neighbor.’ 

‘It’ll be the same here soon enough.' 

‘But Kansas is so prosperous and completely 
populated by tax-payers and auto-owners,’ Oliver 
persisted. 

Gordon was in no mood for humor. 

‘I hope the environment will be uncongenial,’ 
he returned savagely. ‘Then I’ll be driven to 
finish some of my stories and plays.’ 

‘Don’t think it!’ warned Oliver soberly. ‘I 
was born and raised in one of these small 
Middle Western towns, and I know them. It’ll 
get you, sure. There’s something in their 
atmosphere that’s deadening to certain kinds 
of impulse. Before you know it, you’ll be join¬ 
ing the No-Tobacco League, receiving honors 
in lodges, going to funerals, and becoming an 
all-around useful member of society.’ 

Gordon smiled at the suggested incongruity, 
but there was no mistaking the real earnest¬ 
ness in Oliver’s voice as he added awkwardly; 
T know how you feel toward me, just now, 
and I can’t say much; but you’re too big to be 


8 


CAUGHT 


lost. Don’t do it. I swear to you, you’re mak¬ 
ing the mistake of your life.’ 

‘I shan't stay over a year, at most,’ Gordon 
assured him, hastily, more moved than he 
cared to admit by the sincerity of Oliver’s pro¬ 
test. ‘Even a drop of the real thing ought to 
survive that long.’ 

‘Well, whatever you do,’ laughed Oliver, 
'don’t take to marching in parades and wear¬ 
ing badges.’ 

Radnor-by-the-Sea was not more than a day’s 
ride behind him when Sylvia began to seem 
ever so slightly remote, and Oliver more for¬ 
givable than Gordon could have conceived pos¬ 
sible a week earlier. ‘Old Man Travel is get¬ 
ting in his licks on Old Man Time,' he com¬ 
mented inwardly. ‘Funny how objectively one 
can see the whole world and himself through a 
Pullman window. Here’s a young fellow,’ his 
thoughts ran on, ‘with splendid health and 
fairly good looks. No serious vices. Has an 
enormous capacity for work, but uses up all 
his energy with facile space-writing, leaving 
none for the sustained, concentrated effort nec¬ 
essary for creative work. Favorite sport: 
none. Feels best when doing nothing violent. 
Indifferent to business, probably because he 
has not been associated with it. Firids he 


CAUGHT 


9 


avoids anything he doesn’t understand; typical 
American in this. Equally indifferent to God. 
May give Him more thought when older. Not 
an educated person at all; has no particular 
reverence for facts. Prefers a good hook to any¬ 
one’s companionship, but usually gets on well 
with, men, and is quite popular with women. 
Doesn’t sound like such a bad inventory; but 
just the same, his life so far is a failure— 
financially and artistically.’ 

Unconsciously dropping into the first person, 
he went on with, ‘Well, what of it? The world 
needs divine bums. As soon as I get a couple 
of hundred dollars ahead in Fallon, I’ll go 
straight to Paris, where poverty is beautiful, 
to my own kind of people: cynical French 
skeptics; morose, pessimistic Russians; melan¬ 
choly Roumanians; wine-drinking old priests 
who live in untidy rooms and know how to 
laugh; atheists; polite, gorgeously dressed 
Turks; Chinamen; magnificent failures in art, 
letters, and love; women who are not too par¬ 
ticular, and pickpockets off duty. What differ¬ 
ence does it make if I spend my last quarter 
once a month? But I’ll keep a grip on myself 
and buckle down to real work.’ 

With this resolve in his heart, Gordon was 
not disconcerted when, descending from the 


10 


CAUGHT 


train, he was obliged to look twice to find in 
which direction Fallon lay. The little town 
of thirty-five hundred much preferred to wel¬ 
come newcomers at about three o’clock of a 
sunshiny Saturday afternoon. At that hour, 
with the Square swarming with farmers, a 
hundred or more rigs tied to the iron rail sur¬ 
rounding the courthouse yard, and all makes of 
cars parked at the curbing, it seemed to war¬ 
rant the boosters’ proud phrase of ‘City of the 
Second Class.’ On Saturday, too, Rimpkey’s 
redecorated restaurant overflowed; children 
flocked in and out of the two movie-houses; a 
lively crowd gathered around Tawley-the-real- 
estate-man’s weekly demonstration of the Lally 
farm-lighting system,—a good show in itself,— 
and Recker of the Kandy Kitchen was obliged 
to hire extra help to dish up the ice-cream 
sodas for the countrywomen enjoying their 
favorite dissipation. Decidedly, on Saturday 
one could not but be impressed with the bustle 
and activity. But Gordon came on a Tuesday 
morning, at an early hour, when even Kansas 
City is quiet. To his unprejudiced eye, Fallon 
appeared as three homes, a barn, and a chicken- 
house. 

‘Fine,’ he grunted as he passed Canton’s lum¬ 
beryard. ‘Just wliat I wanted—a deserted vil- 


CAUGHT 


11 


lage. All the more reason why I’ll duck out as 
soon as I get a reasonable reserve.’ 

To his amusement, it was necessary to ring a 
gong to waken the owner of the shabby little 
hotel. 

II 

Getting into the swing of his work next morn¬ 
ing was a simple matter for Gordon. After a 
hearty reception by Mr. Rhodes, the publisher, 
who made no effort to conceal his satisfaction 
over his arrival, he was given a pleasant corner 
and told to ‘go to it.’ By noon he was turn¬ 
ing out editorials and articles, thoroughly at 
home in the two-story, box-like building. 

After dinner, Mr. Rhodes brought to Gordon’s 
desk a short, fat man whom he introduced as 
Professor Tomlin McPherson, one of the Mid¬ 
land's regular advertisers. 

‘I sell a peach of an article,’ the professor 
explained, with enthusiasm. ‘It’s called Itch-0 
and there’s no salve can beat it. The fact is’ 
—he dropped his voice confidentially—‘it’s 
made from one of my grandmother’s recipes. 
I did humanity a service when I put it on the 
market. I have testimonials from every state 
in the Union,* he ended, with unmistakable 
pride. 


12 


CAUGHT 


‘I’ll keep Itch-0 in mind if I develop symp¬ 
toms,’ Gordon promised gravely. 

‘Everything’s in the advertising/ declared the 
professor. ‘Frank Rhodes has told me about 
you, and I thought you might look over this 
circular letter I’ve written. It ain’t up to snuff 
when it comes to grammar. If youill put it in 
good shape, I’ll pay you five beans/ 

Gordon took the much-edited sheet, and, as 
he read, discovered possibilities of many times 
five dollars. 

‘Is this all you send to a person who inquires 
about Itch-O?' he demanded. ‘My dear sir, I’m 
afraid you don’t understand the advertising 
game/ 

‘What d’ye mean?’ questioned the Professor. 
‘My stuff pulls fine, once I get it fixed up/ 

Gordon’s answer was a wise, incredulous 
smile. 

‘I’ve increased my business by half in three 
years,' insisted the professor. 

‘Which only proves what you could have 
done/ returned Gordon. ‘You don’t seem to 
realize/ he continued, ‘that when one has an 
ailment, he is intensely interested in it. He 
is ready to read a library about it. He wants 
to know the cause of it, its nature, and its 
characteristics. This circular takes it for 


CAUGHT 


13 


granted that the inquirer merely wants Itch-0. 
He wants more. He wants information.’ 

‘Say,’ exclaimed the professor, impressed, ‘I 
believe you’ve got the right dope. Can you 
turn it out?’ 

‘Yes, I can let you have a well-written dis¬ 
sertation that will cover thirty-two pages in 
agate.’ 

‘I’ll give you a hundred dollars for it.’ 

‘Make it two and it’ll be in your hands to¬ 
night.* 

‘All right,’ agreed the professor, heavily. ‘It’s 
a bargain.’ 

Gordon accepted the assignment and went to 
the Britannica, from which he emerged, satu¬ 
rated with scientific lore. Never had Itch-O’s 
praises been sung so well, never had its virtues 
been described so rapturously. The phrases of 
eulogy galloped from his Underwood. Itch-0 
became literature. 

The professor was delighted, and that -very 
evening, as he wrote the promised check, he 
added that he would appreciate more such sug¬ 
gestions and work. 

On his way to a night lunch-counter for a 
belated meal, Gordon remembered nervously 
that he had covenanted with himself to stay 
merely long enough to Save a couple of hun- 


14 


CAUGHT 


dred dollars for the great journey. But how 
could he have dreamed that the entire fortune 
would be acquired the first day? Really, in 
all decency, he owed it to Mr. Rhodes to 
remain at least a few weeks. He would leave, 
of course, and that shortly, but there was no 
reason why he should break his streak of luck 
when it had only begun. Never before had he 
earned so much at one time. 

The next day, taking the advice of Mr. 
Rhodes, he dropped into the First State Bank 
to deposit his check. Mrs. Graham, the 
friendly little vice-president, waited on him and 
introduced him to the president, James Os¬ 
borne, who had already heard of him. 

‘You’ll get good service here/ said the gruff, 
dignified man. ‘Fallon is always glad to wel¬ 
come hustling young folks/ 

It was a new experience for Gordon to re¬ 
ceive such cordiality from a bank president. 
The thrill was indescribable. 

When he strolled about after supper, he 
noticed the trim post-office with its well-kept 
lawn, the imposing high-school building and 
the neat churches. It wasn’t such a bad little 
town, after all, he reflected. To be sure, the 
general impression was that of unutterable 
commonplaceness, and there was a pitiful lack 


CAUGHT 


15 


of understanding of beauty, either of line or of 
color. The most pretentious house was, archi¬ 
tecturally, quite the most terrible. But the 
people seemed unusually sensible and kindly. 
The whole world couldn’t be artists. 

‘It’s that money-in-the-bank-feeling working,’ 
he murmured in droll dismay. ‘Wouldn’t Oliver 
be triumphant if he knew I was actually begin¬ 
ning to apologize for Fallon.’ 

His meditations were interrupted by a tall, 
spare man and the professor, who explained, 
with an air of proud proprietorship, ‘This is 
the young chap I was telling you about. Mr. 
Hamilton, meet Mr. Burns, the next state sen¬ 
ator from this district.’ 

Ten minutes later, Gordon was richer by 
fifty dollars. Mr. Burns was, indeed, running 
for office, and it was Gordon’s new job to pen 
his advertisements, his letters of acceptance, his 
statements to the county press, and other lit¬ 
erature intended to turn an apparently honest 
man into a senator. 

At the end of the tenth perfect day, Gordon, 
smiling -to himself, checked over his accounts. 
He realized that he had a corner on writing in 
Fallon, and felt an amused worry over tho 
monster of the income-tax which, at this rate, 
would soon menace him. Immediately he de- 


1G CAUGHT 

cided to conceal the visitations of Madam 
Money. Certainly, he would not leave, for the 
present. He would stay in Fallon until he 
had cleaned up a couple of thousand. Paris 
could wait a few months. Paris, like Radnor- 
by-the-Sea, began to seem remote. 

As the new consciousness of his own market 
value began to sink deeper, his courage and 
initiative grew. Before many weeks had 
passed, he decided to enlarge his scale of activ¬ 
ities. Going into Mr. Rhodes’s office, he an¬ 
nounced suddenly that he intended to resign. 

The publisher was more than surprised. As 
Gordon had expected, he was worried. 

‘Why, my dear fellow, you are scarcely set¬ 
tled down,’ he temporized. 

‘I’ve been here long enough to know it’s no 
place for me,’ Gordon answered firmly. 

‘May I ask why?’ 

‘It’s simply this, Mr. Rhodes: you brought 
me here at a measly thirty-dollar salary and 
you’ve loaded me with the work of two men. 
If I’m to do two men’s work, I must have two 
men’s pay.’ 

‘It’s true you have made yourself worth more 
to me than thirty a week,' Mr. Rhodes admit¬ 
ted graciously. ‘I don’t mind telling you that I 
am considering giving you a raise.’ 


CAUGHT 


17 


'Then, now is the time,’ returned Gordon. 
'It isn’t only the money I’m concerned over,’ 
he continued sharply. ‘I don’t like the way a 
lot of things are handled in this office. The 
paper has a large circulation, but it could have 
twice as many subscribers if it had more pep 
and we employed more efficient methods. If 
I’m to stay, I’ll have to be given more author¬ 
ity. I must be managing editor with a salary 
of seventy-five a week and the understanding 
that, as soon as I put on a hundred thousand 
more readers, that amount will be doubled.’ 

There was a long discussion. Mr. Rhodes 
was not the sort of a man to be easily bullied, 
but he had become convinced of Gordon’s un¬ 
usual abilities. The Midland Weekly had, for 
the past year, been losing ground, and he had 
learned from bitter experience that Fallon was 
not an alluring point for brilliant young men. 
The matter ended with Gordon issuing forth a 
full-fledged managing editor at the demanded 
salary. The inspired gambler had placed every¬ 
thing on a small pair and had come off vic¬ 
torious. 

Ill 

Before the year passed, he played for even 
greater stakes, risking all his chips in the su¬ 
preme hazard of matrimony, and, true to his 


18 


CAUGHT 


streak, won, not only genuine happiness, but 
greater prosperity. It was Mr. Rhodes who 
was first impressed with the desirability of 
marriage for Gordon. For, after the momen¬ 
tous interview which more than doubled that 
young man’s salary, he threw up his hands 
and muttered words to the effect that one could 
never be sure of single men. If only this posi¬ 
tive-minded person were married,—with, per¬ 
chance, a family,—ah, then he, Frank Rhodes, 
could use very different tactics. At which 
point he made a quick census of the town and 
instantly thought of Ruth Sterling. 

If Ruth could be interested! All Fallon stood 
a little in awe of her. She had been reared 
so differently from the rest of the small-town- 
ers. She had come to her parents late in their 
lives, and her mother dying while she was a 
baby, her father had brought her up himself. 
She had been sent to a convent school, then to 
Paris, and had flitted back and forth with him 
between the little town and the East until his 
death, when she was eighteen. People had 
wondered what she would ‘do’; but, alone as 
she was, she had clung passionately to the place 
where he had spent his life; and during the 
two years that had passed she had learned, 
under Janet Graham's wise guidance, to enjoy 


CAUGHT 19 

managing the conservative investments left to 
her. These were all in Kansas, and Mr. Rhodes 
shrewdly guessed that it would be no easy task 
to persuade her to leave Fallon. 

Gordon was drawn to her the first time they 
met. He liked the sweet tranquillity of her 
fresh, young face, the well-groomed, carefully 
netted dark hair, her trim figure, perfect poise, 
and unmistakable good breeding. Mr. Rhodes 
and his wife had invited them for a Sunday 
afternoon auto trip, and during the whole ride 
Gordon and Ruth talked together in the ton¬ 
neau. It seemed to them scarcely less than a 
miracle that they had read the same books, 
liked the same plays, had so many valuations in 
common, could laugh with the same tender 
amusement at Fallon’s limitations, and sigh the 
same sigh for interesting places and people. 

Gordon told her of the changes he had 
already effected in the Midland Weekly, of his 
big plans for its future, of his need for utter¬ 
ance, and even outlined in detail some of his 
unfinished writings. As Ruth listened intently, 
she became more and more aware of the dynam¬ 
ic possibilities of this dark, charming youth, 
more and more intrigued by his winning per¬ 
sonality, so baffling in its mixture of commer¬ 
cial practicality and inspired idealism. Never, 


20 


CAUGHT 


it seemed to Gordon, had he known anyone with 
such understanding. He felt doubly sure of 
himself, baptized with a reborn confidence in 
his artistic future. By the time they reached 
home, their friendship was established. 

Marriage, after a few months of companion¬ 
ship, was the logical, natural step for both. 
Gordon’s yearning for sparkling, restless little 
Sylvia had been a disturbing, disintegrating 
force. In his love for Ruth was a rare quality 
of trust and comradeship. How he adored the 
hominess of her! He knew instinctively that 
children would bring to her the same deep joy 
which he realized with a new thrill would be 
his if he were to be a father. Together, he 
felt, they would find life a long adventure, 
always rich in new emotions, new thoughts, and 
new experiences. Each day would be full of 
growth and achievement. It was all so simple, 
too, for Ruth still lived in the old family home¬ 
stead. There was no initial outlay necessary, 
no assuming of serious responsibilities. It 
seemed a part of Gordon’s streak to marry thus. 

This faculty of being successful continued to 
develop with Midas-like rapidity. Literally, 
whatever he touched turned into dollars. It 
became an accepted conclusion in Fallon that 
anything he might do would be profitable. He 


CAUGHT 


21 


traded some unimproved land for a modern, 
well-equipped farm, which he ran on shares, 
going in for thoroughbred Poland Chinas. 
Through his skillful advertising, the Hamilton 
Hog Sales became famous in three states and 
brought prices that made Fallon gasp. He or¬ 
ganized a cooperative elevator with the farm¬ 
ers’ money and his own luck. It was a go from 
the start. At his direction, Itch-O’s capitaliza 
tion was increased by two hundred per cent, 
the stock was sold, a liberal block transferred 
as commission to himself, and the entire busi¬ 
ness put completely under his capable manage¬ 
ment. From the day he leased the Midland 
Weekly its profits steadily increased. 

He was the most listened-to man at the 
town’s Commercial Club. His ^ayso was final, 
because his promises were golden and certain 
to actualize. The County Fair Association, 
which he started, and to which he sold some 
of his wife’s land for the ground, drew thirty 
thousand people the first season, and Gordon 
rightly was given the credit. He was looked 
up to as a pillar of boost, a man who was 
putting Fallon on the map, a genius at organi¬ 
zation. 

He raised ten thousand dollars and placed a 
corporation in control of the town’s best drug- 


22 


CAUGHT 


store, with himself as president. It occurred to 
him that Fallon’s volume of trade would grow 
immeasurably if it were more available by car¬ 
line to the miners of the near-by camps; and, 
getting together sixty-five thousand dollars of 
the necessary funds in the county, he secured 
the balance in Kansas City. He was elected 
president of the new road. As one out of every 
six persons in the surrounding country owned 
a car, he decided that it would be an excellent 
thing to give the town a twenty-five-thousand- 
dollar garage, properly incorporated, with a 
vague system of profit rebates to the stock¬ 
holders, of whom there were many. Again he 
was elected president. He went into coal-min¬ 
ing and helped to open up the yet unexploited 
local oil-fields, and every venture with which 
he was connected was a success. Always serene, 
always at leisure, always ready to organize an 
enterprise and assume its presidency, his word, 
spoken with delightful courtesy, was law. In 
less than seven years, he was the wealthiest 
man in the county. Southeastern Kansas had 
never known anyone like Gordon Hamilton. 
He was something new. 

He had long since observed that, while for a 
few the church was a sincere expression of 
their religious faith, for the majority of the 


CAUGHT 


23 


people of Fallon it was more in the nature of a 
club, and one of the obvious stepping-stones 
toward dignity and prominence. Without hy¬ 
pocrisy, professing nothing, he began to attend 
Presbyterian services and functions with con¬ 
sistent regularity. When a vacancy occurred 
on the Board of Trustees, he was unanimously 
elected to fill it. Followed thereupon the swift 
placing of the church on a sound business basis 
and the remodeling of the nondescript building 
into a stately gothic edifice. It was not large, 
but in drab little Fallon it stood, with its pure 
lines and glowing windows, challenging in its 
beauty., a pearl set in lead. As Gordon sat, on 
Sundays, in the family pew, with Ruth and 
their children, he knew that all the town 
thought him a paragon of respectability; and 
although he could not explain why, he felt that 
he thoroughly deserved this reputation—that, 
at bottom, he always had been solid. 

Ruth was quietly proud of him, and their 
emotional life flowed smoothly, but she was 
often deeply troubled because of the scarcity 
of money. They were worth many times what 
she had been when they were married, but 
there was always a flock of outstanding notes 
which, with their interest, had to be met. It 
was Gordon’s method. If he wished to invest 


24 


CAUGHT 


in a project, he borrowed, sometimes using 
Ruth’s splendid securities as collateral. The 
debt paid, it meant that they had accumulated 
just that much more principal. This knowl¬ 
edge recompensed Gordon for all the necessary 
sacrifices and economies. There came a day, 
however, when Ruth rebelled. 

‘Why do you want to go into any more 
things?’ she asked him desperately, when he 
brought her a note to sign with him for ten 
thousand dollars, that they might purchase an 
interest in a steam-coal-shovel company. 

‘For the fun of making more and the satis¬ 
faction of having it, dear heart/ was the 
prompt answer. 

‘Do you know, Gordon/ she asked slowly, her 
gray eyes strangely calm, ‘do you know that in 
order to make life livable and happy for us all, 
I have been obliged to borrow at the First 
State Bank for the last two years?’ 

‘What?’ Gordon was genuinely shocked. 

‘I owe a thousand dollars there.’ 

‘A thousand dollars!’ echoed Gordon. ‘This 
is terrible.’ 

‘I used to think so/ Ruth smiled bravely, 
‘until Janet Graham made me see that it was 
merely absurd. She says there are half a dozen 
other women—wives of progressive Fallon men 


CAUGHT 25 

■—doing the same ridiculous thing for lack of 
proper spunk.' 

‘But I don’t understand,’ groped Gordon in 
real perplexity; ‘what have you borrowed it 
for?” 

‘Mostly for little things, dear; for the extras 
—the things that take the edges off everyday 
living and put charm and distinction into it; 
for household necessities; for the new sheets 
and counterpanes when you insisted we wait 
another year—though you would buy the eighty 
acres that joined the farm; for the kitchen 
stove when you thought we should get along 
with the old one which was wearing out Sally’s 
nerves; for the new lawn-mower; for the extra 
wages I pay—one couldn’t keep a superior 
maid for what you stipulate, Gordon; for the 
new privet hedge—it cost twice what you think 
—and the lovely climbing roses; for little char¬ 
ities; for gifts from the children and myself 
at the graceful moment. It’s a long list. Shall 
I go on?’ 

‘But why didn’t you tell me?’ 

*1 did, dear, each time,’ Ruth answered qui¬ 
etly. ‘And each time you were so final, you 
delivered such an ultimatum, that I couldn’t 
bear to argue with you. I feel as you do about 
people who wrangle. Perhaps it wasn’t quite 


26 


CAUGHT 


frank, but you see, I could usually understand 
that you honestly, often just because you were 
a man, couldn’t comprehend the reasonableness 
of what I asked. If we had been seriously in¬ 
volved, I shouldn’t have let a penny slip, but it 
suddenly dawned on me that there was abso¬ 
lutely no need for this petty scrimping and 
saving. 

‘Why, Gordon.' she hurried on, ‘father and I 
used to take wonderful trips, we collected rare 
books, I bought the smartest of clothes, and yet 
there was always plenty. Now we can’t afford a 
single luxury. We’ve never been away together 
since we were married—I haven’t been East for 
five years, and I dress like a frump.” 

‘Ruth, what nonsense!’ Gordon interrupted 
brusquely. ‘You know you get your frocks in 
Kansas City and always look remarkably well.’ 

'I pass, but that’s all,’ she corrected. ‘And I 
shouldn’t do that if I didn’t get what I felt I 
must from the bank. ‘Oh, my dear,’ she pleaded, 
‘do see the humorous side of it! It isn’t as if 
you were naturally stingy, and I shouldn’t care 
if there were any use in it; but we have 
enough—so much more than enough. Yet here 
we are, so strapped that I must borrow for what 
I consider essentials. Actually, Gordon, it seems 


CAUGHT ' 27 

more of a problem when I want a new hat than 
when we need a new silo/ 

Gordon came over to her and put his arms 
round her tenderly. 

‘I see your point, dear heart. You make me 
feel like a brute, but you know I’ve never gone 
into anything to which you haven’t agreed. 
As soon as we swing this steam-shovel deal we 
will stop. It shall be the end. I will give 
myself to writing. You know that is what I 
have always planned/ 

‘You must square up at the bank, first/ per¬ 
sisted Ruth. 

‘Renew the note/ 

‘No. Janet doesn’t want me to/ 

‘Do you mean to say she won’t?’ Gordon de¬ 
manded, incredulously. 

‘She didn’t say she wouldn’t, and she made it 
very clear they would lend us any amount we 
wanted; but you know she’s been like an elder 
sister to me, and she made me feel that I was 
being awfully foolish in not having a talk with 
you and putting a stop to this way of doing. I 
am going to pay it, Gordon. I shall sell one of 
my mortgages.’ 

‘Cash in capital? I won’t consent to it.’ 

‘I can’t see what’s to be gained by paying 
interest when I have the money.’ 


28 


CAUGHT 


‘But, my dear child, then the capital will be 
gone. Renew the note, and the next dividend 
from the Midland shall go toward it.’ 

‘No,’ Ruth resisted with gentle stubbornness. 
‘I need that to take the children East to the 
Montessori school, so they can have a month of 
it and I can get a better idea of the method.' 

‘Ruth, we simply cannot afford that this 
year.’ Gordon was earnest. ‘You’ve been such 
a splendid pal—we’ve made so much together. 
I’ve always felt you were with me. I can’t 
understand what’s come over you.’ 

‘I’ve told you, dear. I’ve recovered my sense 
of proportion and I mean to keep it. I won’t 
be poor any longer, merely to make more when 
we have enough now to live beautifully. There’s 
neither rhyme nor reason in it. It’s changing 
you, too, Gordon.’ 

‘I guess I have changed,’ he laughed easily. 
‘I was a queer dub lolling around waiting for 
something real to show up. I remember I 
wanted a couple of hundred dollars for Paris— 
to be a boulevardier—to meet strange failures. 
But, instead, I became a success. Are you 
sorry?’ 

‘Not if you are sure you aren’t.’ Ruth 
answered soberly. Then, after a moment, she 


CAUGHT 


29 


added, very low, ‘Only sometimes—forgive me 
if I hurt you, darling—I’m afraid you will feel, 
too late, that your life has been a failure/ 

IV 

It was so unlike Ruth to be anything but 
sympathetic that her words left a profound im¬ 
pression. After supper, as he listened to her 
moving about, putting the little folks to bed, 
he went over their conversation. Was he, after 
all, a fool to have left the adventures of the 
soul for the game of piling dollar on dollar for 
the sheer sport of piling? Made restless by his 
thoughts, he put on his hat for a walk down¬ 
town. As he strolled, he became more serious. 
Was it true, he asked himself, that he was 
being caught in the meshes of his own success? 
Was it really a misfortune that his luck had 
been so unfailing? And had it been luck, or 
ability? A toss-up, he concluded. 

‘Surely,’ he argued, ‘a man ought to be able 
to establish two distinct selves—one, the 
money-maker for so many hours a day; the 
other, a dweller in the halls of art. I must take 
time to write. But isn’t it rather inane to say 
everlastingly, “I must write,” as though the 
world needed more books. Rather childish, 
that.’ 


so 


CAUGHT 


At least, he decided, he could start off with 
one story—a story of his own soul on its pil¬ 
grimage to Parnassus, halting a moment in the 
temple of the money-changers and remaining 
there. 

‘That ought to make a good theme,’ he mur¬ 
mured. ‘A man ever so rich who is ever so 
poor, hound by the chains of property, while 
his soul suffocates as surely as those stifled by 
lack of means.’ 

But wasn’t it possible, he wondered, to have 
just enough property to ensure comfort, and 
just enough soul to enjoy it to the full? That 
was what Ruth wanted. She was right, too; 
but hang it all, he had the habit of seeing oppor¬ 
tunities. He hadn’t even tapped the ones offered 
in this little town. And what a future he could 
give his children! 

Suppose he had written a novel—half a 
dozen? Would it really have counted for more 
in the world than what he had actually accom¬ 
plished? Would he have created any more,- 
truly? The Midland Weekly's circulation was 
doubled. Itch-0 was a useful and favorite 
national commodity. Hundreds of grateful let¬ 
ters poured into his office every day. Ruth was 
still in love with him. He cherished her and 
their two sturdy boys and beautiful baby 


CAUGHT 


31 


daughter. The town and county looked up to 
him. What if he had never had all this Joy, 
success, and power? But he did have them and 
now he would not, could not be, without them. 
His old world—Sylvia, Radnor-by-the-Sea with 
its temperament and poverty, New York, Paris— 
not even in his mind. Then why this pricking 
of conscience, this conviction that, in spite of 
his logic, he had allowed himself and his stand¬ 
ards to be subtly, irrevocably cheapened? 

His eye was attracted by the glaring red of 
a poster in front of the town's best movie- 
house, and he stopped to look. It was a pic- 
turization of Pierrot and the Moon Maiden. But 
before he could examine the lithograph with 
any care, he felt a hand on his shoulder and 
heard an excited voice exclaim,— 

‘If it isn’t Gordon! Gordon Hamilton, the 
long-lost, the plutocratic, small-town Croesus!’ 

‘Oliver!’ returned Gordon, ‘Radnor-by-the-Sea’s 
old thumper of the Steinway’ What are you 
doing here in Fallon, Kansas?’ 

‘On a mission of art and beauty—See there.' 
Oliver indicated the poster. It cannot be shown 
to jazz; it needs the interpretative music which 
I have composed myself.’ 

‘Do you track a picture and play the piano in 
movie-houses like this?’ 


32 


CAUGHT 


‘Preaching the doctrine of the sublime.* 

Gordon laughed lightly at the intended exag¬ 
geration. 

‘But seriously,’ Oliver continued, ‘the world 
does need ambassadors of the muse—* 

‘Pioneers of aestheticism, torch-bearers of the 
over-man, advance agents of the super-soul 
and—’ 

‘Stop!’ commanded Oliver. 

‘And Sylvia—she is here with you spreading 
the gospel of beauty?’ 

‘Oh, Sylvia!’ Oliver shrugged his shoulders in 
an expressive gesture. ‘She is out cf my life. 
You escaped because yould not win her; I 
escaped because I did.’ 

Gordon shuddered as he reflected on Oliver’s 
fleeing to this soiled goal, banging out inciden¬ 
tal melodies to a five-reel film. And yet, was 
it so different from his own effort to earn a 
couple of hundred for possibly as futile a jour¬ 
ney to Paris? 

‘I’ve heard about you, Gordon,' said Oliver: 
‘how you married and settled down to peace, 
prosperity, and Philistinism, as you may hap¬ 
pen to remember, I once prophesied you 
would.’ 

‘I’m not peaceful, though I am prosperous, 
and, I suppose, a thoroughgoing Philistine.’ 


CAUGHT 


33 


'You, with your long drawn-out theories of 
literary expression, with your everlasting talk 
about what you were to write, with your real 
gift—you in this little town, just making 
money. It’s a shame.’ 

‘Oh, I don’t know’ fenced Gordon; ‘I’m still 
young enough, and only this evening I outlined 
a story which I shall work on tonight.’ 

‘You won’t write it,’ declared Oliver flatly. 
*1 can see that.’ 

‘You think I am quite hopeless?’ 

‘Absolutely. One must be ready to make 
great sacrifices. Take myself. I might be a 
money-maker, too, but see what I do. I get 
only my expenses and twenty-five dollars a 
week, but I am happy, because every evening 
and sometimes twice a day I give to this little 
gem of fantasy a background of music.’ 

‘You really are happy?’ 

‘I am that. Next season I am to go out with 
A Midsummer Night's Dream. Only an artist 
can comprehend the joy I have in creating my 
own compositions. I could draw on a rich 
repertoire, but I prefer to dip into my own 
well.’ 

Gordon noticed the burning, far-seeing eyes, 
the pale skin, the deep lines from nostrils to 


34 


CAUGHT 


the sensitive mouth, the nervous movements of 
the thin lips. And his clothes—how cheap! 

‘If this is his happiness,’ thought Gordon, as 
both entered the crude little house for the first 
show, ‘thank Heaven, I am not of it!’ 

Oliver went to the piano with the air of a 
Carnegie Hall soloist. Gordon wondered wheth¬ 
er this might be because of a lack of humor 
or of an over-abundance of it. Or was the man 
able to persuade himself that he was before 
an audience thirsting for his art? His ges¬ 
tures were most profound. The piano, alas! 
was no instrument for this throbbing soul. 
Gordon saw very little of the picture, though 
what he watched was exquisite. The musician 
held him. Oliver had spoken the truth. It 
was plain that, as he played, he was lifted up 
into a world of poetry and ecstasy. Sincerity 
and happiness shone from his face. He did 
not seem to realize, as did Gordon, that he 
was pouring his music into stone ears. None 
of his efforts would make the slightest eleva¬ 
tion of tone in Fallon. A thousand such am¬ 
bassadors would leave it untouched. 

During the wait between the first and sec¬ 
ond shows, Oliver seated himself by Gordon, 
who could not help hearing the litle rustlings 
ftnd whisperings as the townfolk noticed their 


CAUGHT 35 

financier associating with this odd, minstrel¬ 
like stranger. It irritated Gordon to find that 
he felt conspicuous and uncomfortable. 

‘You did well,” he said kindly. 

Oliver ate up this thin slice of praise. ‘It’s 
nothing compared to the things I am doing for 
A. Midsummer Night’s Dream. I’ve been think¬ 
ing,’ he went on impetuously, ‘that since you 
are so well off, you might do something for a 
poor artist. You cannot help yourself, why not 
help me?’ 

‘How?’ 

‘By lending me enough to lease outright one 
set of reels. I’ll pay you back some day, if I 
can; and if I can’t you will, at least, have 
rendered some service to art.' 

‘How much will you w 7 ant?’ 

‘I don’t know. I’ll write you. I may need 
five or six hundred, and I may need more. 
It ought to be a good investment. Instead of 
getting only twenty-five a week, I’ll often clear 
twenty-five a night when I play to my own 
show. 

‘You have the right idea—’ 

‘I know so many movie-owners; I can ar¬ 
range more dates than I can handle.’ 

‘I’ll do it,’ promised Gordon grimly; ‘not to 
help art, but to show you what I have been 


36 


CAUGHT 


up against. You will make money, and being 
cautious, you will save. You will lease a few 
more pictures, square yourself up with me, 
and go into the business on a larger scale. 
You will understand what has kept me from 
writing. You will become too occupied to com¬ 
pose.’ 

‘No danger of that,’ laughed Oliver confi¬ 
dently. ‘You will really help me? I hate to 
ask it of you, but—you understand.’ 

‘I understand you better than you think. I 
am going to undo this sordid little world of 
yours and send you on the road to peace, pros¬ 
perity, and Philistinism. My dear fellow, you 
are soon to realize that this art for art’s sake, 
this will to suffer, this sacrifice—is all bluff, 
except in youth—a pose! You may think you 
look down on me as a defaulter, but you envy 
me my success.’ 

‘Not at the price you’ve paid for it.’ 

‘Wait and see,* was Gordon’s cryptic answer. 

V 

As he made his way home, late that evening, 
after saying good-bye to his old friend, his 
mind was full. He was sure Oliver’s was no 
standard, and yet he could not deny that at 
one time it had been his own. 



CAUGHT 


37 


‘I must merely make a slight change in my 
life,’ he told himself. ‘I must buy and sell, 
handle my business transactions, edit the 
Weekly, and boost Itch-0; but I must remem¬ 
ber, as Ruth does, that these things are a 
means, not an end. I’ll put all these thoughts 
and emotions into a story, and if, when it’s 
finished, it’s no good, I’ll he able to live my 
regular life without further qualms.’ 

Athrob with this urge for expression, his 
imagination began to picture situations and 
characters, and he was already making mental 
notes of sentences, when he was stopped by the 
professor, now only a minority stock-holder 
and assistant manager in the temple that is¬ 
sued such enormous quantities of salves for 
the anointing of the trusting. 

‘I say, Mr. Hamilton; just a minute/ 

Gordon paused, impatient. 

‘You know we haven’t had a new piece of 
literature in a dog’s age.’ 

‘Well, what of it?’ Gordon asked sharply. 
‘The receipts seem to be coming in right along.’ 

‘Just the same we ought to get out some¬ 
thing new and classy—something catchy.’ 

‘Get it done. For heaven’s sake, are you 
helpless? Must I write every word?’ 

‘There’s no one can do it as well.’ 


38 


CAUGHT 


‘Perfect nonsense! We’ll have to employ 
some live wire who can attend to the detail 
work. I’m getting sick and tired of it. I must 
have time to live, to think, to create.’ 

This was a new Gordon. Confused, the pro¬ 
fessor found an excuse to go. 

‘Always Itch-O, Itch-0,’ thought Gordon dis¬ 
gustedly. ‘It’s high time I came to myself.’ 

He reached home a few minutes later and 
hurried to the library. There he found Ruth 
lying on the couch reading. 

‘Hello, dear,’ she smiled pleasantly, noting 
the look of suppressed excitement in Jiis eyes. 
‘What have you been made president of to¬ 
night?’ 

‘President of my own soul. I‘ve come home 
to work.’ 

‘A set of by-laws for a new corporation?’ 

‘No. I’ve had enough of this endless money- 
grubbing.’ 

Ruth’s eyebrows arched slightly, but her tone 
was warm as she exclaimed,— 

‘You don’t mean—?’ 

‘That I’ve come home full of inspiration. I’m 
going to work on a story.’ 

She rose quickly. ‘The library is yours, old 
dear. I’ll make some coffee.’ 

Alone, Gordon sat down before his Corona 


CAUGHT 39 

and typed, ‘The Seeker.’ Then he thought hard, 
He wrote a while, hurriedly; tore out the sheet. 
Before he adjusted another, he recalled his re* 
cent meeting with the professor and cussed 
him roundly. In his own journey to Parnassus, 
this fat little man had stopped him with a fat 
little temptation, and since then he had been 
bowing before the god of Itch-O. 

He searched for his pipe and lost himself in 
a whirlwind of chaotic reflections. One thought, 
however, dominated—that of the necessity for 
a new booklet—a clever one. Oh, the profes¬ 
sor’s evil spirit! How it persisted! 

‘I know why I can’t write tonight.’ Gordon 
grumbled. ‘It’s this wretched pamphlet. It 
has to be done. When I get it out of the way, 
I’ll be free to go ahead with a clear mind.’ 

From then on, the typewriter clicked without 
a halt. Again did the praises of Itch-0 rise in 
symphonic volume, with the glorious climax 
that ‘the trial treatment is free.’ 

When, hours later, Ruth, heeding a sudden 
silence, came in with a dainty tray, Gordon 
lay back in his chair, exhausted. A lump 
swelled in his throat as his tired mind admitted 
that once more he had been caught. 

‘You’ve been working hard,' Ruth said ten- 


40 


CAUGHT 


derly. ‘You look worn out. Will you show me 
what have you written?* 

Embarrassed, he turned down the pages. 

*1 wasn’t in the mood, precious, I—’ 

‘But what have you been doing?’ 

‘Nothing, nothing; just a little matter that’s 
been hanging over me. I’ll tackle the story 
tomorrow evening. Well, shall we get to 
sleep?” 


DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 41 


DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 

i 

The Square was all but deserted. Even the 
time-worn court-house, centred among weeds 
and scrawny catalpas seemed dozing, and the 
little county seat’s one stone-fronted building, 
the First State Bank, with blinds drawn, ap¬ 
peared to have shut its eyes wearily after one 
more fussy day in heavy harness. 

-Inside, Bob, the youthful teller, was clacking 
away at the Burroughs, jerking his skinny, 
stringy neck each time he yanked the handle. 
The cashier mumbled solemnly as he stacked 
the twenties in five-hundred-dollar piles. James 
Osborne, the president,—bag-eyed, with a stern, 
inexorable face, a rock-ribbed jaw, and heavy 
figure,—sat writing letters. And at her desk 
near his, Janet Graham, the girlish vice-presi¬ 
dent, was going over belligerent-looking mort¬ 
gages. 

Her mind was far from southeastern Kansas. 
Mechanically, she would note the dates on the 
interest coupons, and then, after jotting down 
a memorandum, she would stop and think a 


42 DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 

moment of her husband, Robert. His letter, 
which had come from New York on the noon 
train, was on her mind and in her heart. She 
slipped it out of its envelope and read it again. 
It told her that the managers could not even 
consider his play. It was too high-brow. That 
sort of thing would not go. ‘And probably they 
are right,’ he added. 

‘You know, dear,’ he wrote candidly, ‘it takes 
only a few days’ peddling to transform a philo¬ 
sophical comedy into a tragedy. They were nice 
to me. I didn’t expect so much attention. I 
should not have been surprised at complete 
indifference, if not rebuffs. Instead, I was 
taken out to dine by three potentates, and-on 
each occasion told how utterly absurd I was to 
put my energy into this style of work. And I 
guess it’s the truth, sweetheart.’ 

Intuition as well as judgment whispered to 
Janet that in Robert’s very absurdities lay his 
power. Any number of clever men could manu¬ 
facture the popular current play and straight¬ 
forward, interesting story. But to write spark¬ 
ling moonshine that left the bemused reader 
uncomfortably conscious that, while apparently 
talking in the absurdest fashion, the author had 
somehow given a penetrating criticism of life 


DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 43 

—this was left for the few who, when their 
genius had ripened, wrote for all time. 

That The Miracle Men had a touch of this 
quality, Janet was as positive as Robert was 
doubtful. He had brought it to her, saying in 
his gentle naive way, ‘Of course, Janet, no 
civilized human being should write a play with 
such persons as these in it. I’m afraid the 
very characters are enough to queer its 
chances.’ 

In a modern setting, this droll comedy pre¬ 
sented a group of rare spirits in commonplace, 
sordid environments. Voltaire had become a 
fishmonger; Chesterton, a plumber; Shaw, a 
‘gimme-the-rent’ Irish landlord; Shakespeare, 
a successful movie-owner; Poe, an undertaker; 
Dante, an Italian ice-cream vender; Beethoven, 
a pianist in a Fourteenth Street theatre orches¬ 
tra; Juliet, a worker in a box-factory, and Ham¬ 
let, alas, not Romeo,—her dopy husband. 

There were others, all similarly situated 
Their immediate lives were materialistic, but 
the' artist in them strove for their pasts. In 
Hamlet’s one-room domicile, this extraordinary 
company gathered to plot an escape from the 
actual, and regain their former glories; but, 
each innately hostile to the others, their plans 
collapsed in utter disappointment. Their effort 


44 DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 

to organize genius was as futile as an attempt 
to persuade an eagle, an angel, a demon, and a 
fish to pull together for one purpose. The play- 
presupposed a degree of culture. Otherwise the 
delicate nuances of irony were lost. If it was 
talky in places, it was scintillating talk. It 
was actable in the right atmosphere. But 
Janet, always just, had to admit that she could 
not wholly blame the commercial managers. 

‘I gave them up/ wrote Robert, ‘and went 
down to Washington Square, where I met sev¬ 
eral young men and women who are interested 
in a little theatre. I found them receptive, 
even cordial. They probably thought the play 
just freakish enough to command attention. 
There won’t be a chance this spring, but they 
will try it out early next fall if —notice the if — 
if I put up twenty-five hundred dollars to 
guarantee them against loss. If it is less, they 
agree to rebate the difference, though between 
ourselves I rather question the value of their 
promises. It seems to be quite taken for granted 
there will be some loss. They summer at 
Provincetown, and I can go up with them to 
work on the scenery and costumes. The play 
will be presented at least six times, which is 
fair. I have also been to see the publisher of 
Whom I spoke in my last letter. He will pub- 


DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 45 

lish the play if it is produced on the stage, if 
—another if —if we guarantee five hundred in 
case the first edition of a thousand falls flat. 
I know how you feel, darling, but I am strongly 
convinced that I should go home and forget 
about it. I have had lots of fun writing this 
thing. Why go further? Think it over care¬ 
fully, Janet!’ 

Practical judgment told her to call it off; 
but Robert’s dreams were hers. She wanted 
him to have a fair chance. Three thousand 
dollars was a lot of money; but who would have 
known Thomas Hardy if he hadn’t financed his 
first novel? Suppose many of the initial thou¬ 
sand of the published play should be left? 
Weren’t the remainders of others’ early edi¬ 
tions cherished now by the discriminating 
world? It wasn’t as if it were a question 
whether or not Robert could write. The utili¬ 
tarian side to his gift was as clear and as 
lucrative as her own banking methods. Years 
spent with newspapers and magazines had 
taught him how to turn out articles that were 
always in demand at a good figure. But this 
spark that was ‘different,’ that experimented 
—Janet did not want it smothered; she wanted, 
passionately, to help kindle it into flame. 


S6 DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 

II 

When they were married, three years before, 
many papers carried items about them. She 
was, they said, precisely the sort of young 
woman that alarmists of not so very long ago 
were lifting their voice against in warning. 
She had not been long out of college when the 
death of the head of her family called her to take 
that place and make its third generation of 
country bankers. She had accepted cheerfully 
what seemed to her a clear duty to ‘carry on,' 
and had settled down in her little native town. 
It had never occurred to her, once Robert had 
found he could continue his work from there, 
that she should not combine a business and 
domestic life; and systematizing her day, she 
took as much pride in her cozy home as in the 
dividends the bank declared. 

Blessed with a happy, enthusiastic tempera¬ 
ment, she gave an impression of buoyant youth 
that made her seem much less than her thirty 
years; her compact little figure radiated charm 
and vitality, and sunny chestnut hair curled 
about a merry, piquant face, lighted by warm, 
friendly, brown eyes that registered infinite 
shades of feeling. Often care-free as a child’s, 
sometimes they were luminous with wisdom. 


DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 47 

As she returned to the Harvey mortgage, 
which she had deserted for Robert’s letter, she 
frowned her dissatisfaction. Here was a man 
who should not be. in arrears, a farmer who 
could make money. Where others less able 
then he were meeting their obligations 
promptly, Harvey was lagging behind, letting 
interest grow into the dread monster of com¬ 
pound interest. The conviction grew in Janet’s 
mind, that if Robert were to have the means 
to bring his play before the public, Harvey 
would be one of the men who would have to 
pay up. 

‘Jim,’ she called suddenly to Osborne, ‘this 
second coupon of the Harveys fell due several 
weeks ago. That makes them two years back 
in their interest. It totals around seven hun¬ 
dred dollars. Don’t you think we should have 
Joe and his wife secure it by a chattel mort¬ 
gage on their growing crops?’ 

James Osborne was of the old school. He 
had been cashier under Janet’s father, and had 
taught her practically all she knew of the busi¬ 
ness. He seemed uncompromisingly stern, but 
she had found that under a gruff exterior beat 
one of the kindest of hearts. Both Osborne 
and Janet, like many country bankers, applied 
themselves to farmers’ problems. They knew 


48 DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 

when to be easy and when to tighten the reins. 
And as the Grahams and Osborne owned two- 
thirds of the stock, what they decided was law. 
When Osborne was sometimes too conservative, 
a trifle old-fogy, perhaps, Janet might have 
been too venturesome. Together they struck a 
balance, one that encouraged healthy dividends 
twice a year. 

‘Yes,’ agreed Osborne, grimly, ‘we’ll have to 
do something all right. Joe is on one of his 
buying tears right now. Just look at this.’ 
And he handed Janet a check. 

‘On us for four hundred dollars!’ she ex¬ 
claimed; and seeing some penciling in the lower 
left-hand corner, read: ‘Part payment on Buck¬ 
eye McKinley Segis.’ 

‘Can you beat it? He is overdrawn now.’ 

Janet’s lips set closely. Robert’s dreams 
would never become tangible realities if a few 
more Harveys were to nest under the shelter 
of the First State Bank. 

‘It came through Kansas City this morning,’ 
observed Osborne. 

‘I see it is a sight draft dated from Illinois. 
He is probably at some stock show. Jim, what 
do you think of that man?’ 

‘Well, it’s hard telling,’ replied Osborne. ‘He’s 
a sort of genius, he is. But his dreams are too 


DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 4 9 

big for his pocketbook, so he lets them lop over 
into other people’s. He used to do first-rate 
until he got this high-grade-stock craze and 
took the notion that he was appointed by the 
gods to develop the dual-purpose breed of cattle. 
We’ve lent him money off and on for the last 
fifteen years. There was a time when all he 
had to do was to ask for it; but somehow he 
seems to be going down hill lately. You know 
how things stand as well as I do. We’ve got 
to put our foot down and put it down hard.’ 

‘He always seems so superior to his wife,’ 
mused Janet. ‘But I suppose,’ she added 
shrewdly, ‘that is because he gets out so much 
and mingles with stimulating people, while she 
is so tied at home. She and the two older 
boys about run the dairy. I notice one of the 
daughters helps deliver the milk.’ 

A vigorous rattling at the door interrupted 
them. As the teller opened it, Janet saw a 
large, stolid woman, in a straight, rusty coat 
that concealed any possible grace. Held tightly 
was a huge armful of baby, and clinging to her 
skirts was a bewitching-faced little butterfly 
of a girl. 

‘How-do-you-do, Mrs. Harvey?’ said the young 
man, easily. 


50 DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 

‘Just fine, Bob,’ returned the woman in a 
deep, pleasant voice. ‘Is Mrs. Graham in?’ 

‘Come back here, Fanny,’ invited Janet, rising 
and going to open the door to a semi-private 
office. ‘Do sit down and unwrap the baby. 
How old is he now?’ she asked, watching Mrs. 
Harvey divest the infant of the heavy outer 
blanket. 

‘Four months. But it ain’t a boy. It’s a 
girl.’ 

‘Oh, so she is,’ returned Janet placidly. Long 
ago she had learned when in doubt to take it 
for granted that every child was a future presi¬ 
dent. ‘What a darling! And you call her—?’ 

‘Pearl.’ 

‘Of course,’ thought Janet. ‘Pearl or Pansy. 
The more prosaic the mother, the more poetic 
the name.’ 

‘This here one’s Marie,' continued Mrs. Har¬ 
vey. ‘She’ll be two in May.’ 

‘My baby will-be one in May!’ exclaimed 
Janet. ‘So this is what she will be like in a 
year from now. It doesn’t seem possible they 
can grow so rapidly.’ With tender curiosity 
she looked at the little girl, whose appealing 
violet eyes, chiseled features, and exquisite 
body made Janet wonder profoundly how Fanny 
Harvey could have produced such a lovely crea- 


DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 51 ; 

ture. ‘She is adorable,' she enthused sincerely, 
and went briskly to get some paper and a 
pencil for Marie to play with while she and 
Mrs. Harvey talked. 

‘Give me Pearl/ she suggested, ‘while you take 
off your coat and Marie’s. It’s so warm in here 
I’m afraid you may catch cold when you go out. 
These spring days are very deceptive. I’m 
going to take off the rest of this wee lamb’s 
wraps.’ And she was soon cooing down mother- 
fashion into the little face. ‘Marie two years, 
and this one four months! Seven children 
already, and Fanny not more than three years 
older than I!’ she thought. ‘Well, for women 
like her, motherhood is as incidental as for 
their stock/ 

‘I’ve never seen your baby/ ventured Mrs. 
Harvey. 

‘Here is a picture of her taken at eleven 
weeks/ said Janet proudly. And with Pearl 
still in her arms she went to get it. 

‘My, ain’t she sweet!’ 

‘She is quite different now/ answered her 
mother softly. ‘I know someone who is most 
awfully hungry/ she laughed; for little Pearl 
had begun to rummage in the folds of Janet’s 
smart frock. ‘It’s impossible even to try to 
think until one’s baby is contented. I kno\^ 


52 DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 

from experience. Come into the directors’ 
room; it’s more secluded.’ And as they sat 
down at the long table, she added, ‘When Gloria 
was younger she used to have her dinner here 
every afternoon.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Harvey with eager interest. 
‘I told Joe they must take the baby over here 
to you.’ 

It struck Janet as odd that Joe and Fanny 
Harvey had speculated upon where she nursed 
her baby. ‘Yes,’ she smiled, ‘but now I feed 
her when I put her to sleep before I come in the 
afternoon, and then the first thing when I reach 
home. She does splendidly. I think I shan’t 
wean her until the hot summer is over.’ 

Mrs. Harvey nodded her approval. ‘It’s best 
not to,’ she said with authority. Then, with 
a gesture dramatic in its simplicity, she opened 
her waist a trifle further. A jagged, ugly 
scar crossed the breast against which little 
Pearl lay. 

Janet’s eyes misted with quick tears. *Oh, 
my dear, did you have to go through thatV 

‘The sixth,’ said Mrs. Harvey, with a signifi¬ 
cant glance at Marie. ‘And she had to go on 
one. But this,’ with a touch of her roughened 
fingers on Pearl’s hair, ‘this has two. You 
have no trouble?’ 


DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 53 

‘None at all,’ Janet answered gratefully. 

Mrs. Harvey sighed. It was a sigh that told 
as much as her words. ‘I have a hard time 
with all my children,’ she confided. ‘Before 
they come, too. Seems like I can’t hardly get 
through my work. Joe used to tell me how 
you was always here in the bank every day. 
I’ve heard folks wonder how you get any time 
to give to Gloria.’ Janet noticed the easy use 
of her baby’s name, as if it had been often on 
Mrs. Harvey’s tongue. ‘But I tell ’em, “Land! 
I wish I could give as much time to mine.” 
It worries me how I have to let them go; but 
there’s only one pair of hands—’ 

‘They are beautiful children,' said Janet 
warmly, drawing Marie close. ‘I wonder if 
Gloria will be quite as enchanting. Wonderful 
little souls! There is nothing like them.’ 

The faces of the two women filled with ex¬ 
pression. A genuine sweetness, a certain sound 
experience shone from both. They talked of 
*heir children. Gloria was eleven months and 
walking everywhere. Marie had walked at 
the end of ten. And her little legs were 
straight? But one could see! Pearl had the 
colic badly. Had Fanny used one of the bands 
that go over the shoulders under the shirt? 
They didn’t slip, and kept the little stomachs 


54 DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 

so warm. Johnny was just starting to school 
and found the two-mile walk pretty far. Jo© 
hoped soon to he able to buy a pony for the 
children to drive. They had been promised one 
for a year, but Gladys had been put off from 
her music for more than that. She seemed so 
pale this spring. Did she have enough vege¬ 
tables with iron in them, spinach and carrots 
and such? A warm intimacy, as real as the 
fundamental facts upon which it rested, drew 
the two together. Gentleness and motherhood 
possessed the room. On the soft, ample bosom 
little Pearl slept. 

The clock sounded the half hour, and a ripple 
of uneasiness flowed between them. Janet be¬ 
came acutely conscious that time was passing. 
Now, with little Pearl asleep, was the time to 
talk. She was aware, too, from the tension in 
Mrs. Harvey’s silence that she, also, was gather¬ 
ing her forces for some difficult utterance. 
They must get down to business. Yet, some¬ 
how, it was harder than usual. Heretofore, 
she had always dealt with Joe, and thus had 
not been made poignantly cognisant of the 
Harveys’ struggle. Women had the capacity 
to give the most ordinary transaction emo¬ 
tional coloring, while men usually impersonal- 
ized most deals. They knew how to keep their 


DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 55 

• 

feelings in one compartment and cold facts in 
another. Janet’s generous heart longed to give 
instead of to demand, but the latter had to be 
done, if not by her, then by Jim. There was 
no point in shifting responsibility. And be¬ 
sides, there was Robert’s letter from New York. 
She was quiet a moment longer, then a little 
abruptly,— 

‘I’m awfully glad you came in this afternoon, 
because I was just going to write you. We 
must do something about this back interest. 
It can’t be allowed to pile up as it is doing 
now. In the first place, it isn’t good business 
on our part, nor fair to our stockholders; and 
then, it just makes it that much harder for 
you, Fanny, if you let your interest compound. 
You must clear some of it up. Mr. Osborne and 
I think we shall have to ask for a chattel on 
your growing wheat and corn as security.’ 

Mrs. Harvey’s face clouded. ‘You know, we 
would’ve paid if we could. If we get any kind 
of a crop, we’ll turn over as much as we can 
spare and live. I don’t think you ought to ask 
for a mortgage on the only thing we’ve got 
we can call our own.’ 

‘Fanny,’ said Janet gently but with unmis¬ 
takable firmness, ‘I am sure Joe is perfectly 
straight, but when he owes as much as he does 


56 DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 

here and then goes to Illinois and writes a 
check on us for four hundred dollars that reads 
“part payment on Buckeye McKinley Segis,” 
we are certainly going to see to it that we are 
protected, and that when you harvest your 
wheat this summer, some of it is coming to us 
and not going into more stock. If it is what 
you were planning to do anyway,—and I take 
your word for it when you say it is,—you surely 
can’t consistently object.’ 

‘Joe knows what he is doing when he buys 
the best,’ said Mrs. Harvey, with spirit. ‘It 
isn’t for you to criticize his methods.' 

‘Not his methods,’ agreed Janet evenly, ‘but 
the results of those methods. Why didn’t you 
have a better wheat-crop last year?’ 

‘The Hessian flies got into it, and besides, 
it jointed before winter set in.’ 

‘The chances are neither would have hap¬ 
pened if you had turned your stock on to it.' 

‘How do you know we didn’t?’ 

‘My dear,’ replied Janet, ‘it’s our business to 
know. It was because your fences weren’t 
stock proof. Isn’t that true? And wasn’t that 
because Joe was here and there and every¬ 
where?’ 

‘He makes more buying and selling stock 
than raising it. He knows the best way to 


DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 57 

advertise his stuff is at the shows. And he 
sure hopes to breed the dual-purpose cow, a 
Holstein and Shorthorn i» one. He’s got more 
brains than any other farmer around here.’ 

‘I know he has brains, Fanny,' admitted 
Janet willingly. ‘And he understands stock. I 
realize, too, that your farm is worth more than 
enough to clear the mortgage, the interest and 
all expenses, and then leave a wide margin. We 
are not worried about the loan. But you don’t 
think we want ever to foreclose, do you? That’s 
not our way. You tell Joe to stay at home and 
stick either to milk or beef. He dreams too 
much about this dual-purpose cow,’ Janet con¬ 
tinued sharply. ‘He wants beef and milk from 
the same breed—we haven’t got it yet. We may 
get it, at some distant time. Many stockmen 
believe it. Personally, I have my doubts. A 
cow eats forty pounds of feed a day, let us say 
'—if she’s a Holstein it goes to milk, if she’s 
a Shorthorn it goes to beef. That food can’t 
do both. You can’t get something for nothing. 
Joe means well, but why doesn’t he work along 
established lines and leave this problem to 
moneyed faddists and experiment stations? He 
ought to think of you and these children.’ 

‘You’re not thinking of them much, Janet 
Graham/ retorted Mrs. Harvey bitterly, ‘or 


58 DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 

you’d knock off that compound interest. I 
don’t see what cause you have to kick about 
our being slow, when every day we put off 
paying you, you’re getting ten per cent on the 
back interest, besides the regular six and a half 
on the mortgage.’ 

Both women were hardening. But Janet, ac¬ 
customed to dealing with all sorts of people, 
explained patiently: ‘You rented money from 
us which, invested, has brought you milk and 
calves. Rented to someone else, it would have 
brought us in rent promptly. And you can’t 
tell how much or how little not having that 
income may have cost us. Money produces 
just as surely as a cow produces. Frankly, I, 
for one, need our share of this particular rent 
very much.’ 

‘If our wheat had done better, we could've 
paid it all. Even then, if our alfalfa hadn’t 
been winter froze and—’ 

‘Fanny,’ broke in Janet quickly, ‘I’m going 
to talk plain English to you. It’s just people 
like your husband who justify compound in¬ 
terest. He is honest in intention, but if we 
were too easy, he would let his debts run and 
run and. accumulate. There must be some 
penalty that makes it too expensive not to 
meet his obligations. You have splendid land 


DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 59 

and good stock, and you can pay every dollar 
you owe, if you’ll stick to the dairy business 
with good grade, and some registered, ani¬ 
mals. You know, I’m not against fine blood. 
On the contrary. But I think Joe has no busi¬ 
ness to go into it to the point where this 
present situation is the result.' 

‘He’ll never be contented until he breeds the 
animal he’s working for. To him all the money 
in the world will never be worth that.’ 

Slow tears gathered in Mrs. Harvey’s tired 
eyes and trickled down her flushed cheeks. 
‘Maybe you think I haven’t talked to him, Janet. 
A man who knows farming like him, and me 
working like I do, and the three older children 
helping so willing. I wish to God he could 
get this breed. It isn’t only the money it would 
bring us, though you know how such stuff sells. 
But it would be the peace. He’s found the 
right kind of a bull up in Illinois. Here’s his 
telegram.' 

As she fumbled for it, there arose before 
Janet the picture of Joe Harvey—a man of 
middle age, above medium height, dressed al¬ 
ways with a certain careless style, shoes pol¬ 
ished, great, capable hands, heavy dark hair, 
with touches of gray growing thick on a mas¬ 
sive head, positive jaw, and eye<? that gleamed 


60 DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 

like new steel when he was making one of his 
‘trades’; genial, square in all his dealings, hut 
quick to see and take every legitimate advan¬ 
tage. A practical stockman who could be suc¬ 
cessful, forever pursuing a will-o’-the-wisp; 
dreaming among cows—a dream that was an 
ominous crescendo of disappointment. 

Simultaneously there flashed into her mind 
Robert with his whimsical smile, his dear eyes 
shadowed with visions, and his play of Machia- 
velli and Voltaire and Chesterton. Another 
idealist, but her own, whom she would stand by 
with every bit of intelligence and every ounce 
of determination, yes, just as Fanny Harvey 
was standing by hers. 

‘Here’s his night-letter,’ said Mrs. Harvey. 
‘It come this morning.’ 

Janet read: ‘Have found exactly animal look¬ 
ing for Holstein will cross with Nell Beach- 
wood arrange loan for one thousand put it 
through for me girl I depend on you.’ 

The stillness deepened until little Pearl’s 
breathing and the friction of Marie’s pencil 
on the paper vied with the tick of the clock in 
distinctness. In the eyes of each of the women 
glowed the reflected light of her husband’s 
radiant dream. Harvey’s called for a thousand, 
Robert’s for three. 


DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 61 

To Janet, imaginative, sensitive soul that she 
was, the moment seemed woven of the very 
tissue of tragedy. She must play her part in 
frustrating one man’s creative triumph, that 
another’s might be quickened; in condemning 
Joe Harvey to the common level, that Robert 
might advance toward brilliant achievement. 
It was cruel! Then the good sense that usually 
guided Janet through the mists of her sym¬ 
pathies reasserted itself. Clearly it was not 
for her to finance the Harveys’ castles. She 
and Robert had their own castles. 

‘Can’t be done,’ she said decidedly, and there 
was finality in her voice. ‘We hold a chattel 
on stock now that we took because Joe almost 
convinced Mr. Osborne and myself that it was 
his one chance to win out. That was when 
he bought the Shorthorn, Nell Beachwood. She 
was all that was necessary to attain the perfect 
result. Now he has her and it is still the same 
story—it is another animal he needs.’ 

‘Nell Beachwood did drop some fine calves. 
He is getting them better and better.’ 

‘I’m awfully sorry, but it can’t be done,’ re¬ 
peated Janet. ‘Even if he did produce what 
he’s after I question if he could exploit the 
new breed successfully. It’s tlm f turning-point 
for you, Fanny.’ 


f ■u. 


62 DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 

‘We can give a chattel on our growing crop 
as security for this loan/ pleaded Mrs. Harvey 
desperately. 

‘We expect that, as I showed you before, to 
protect the back seven hundred/ Janet reminded 
her. ‘We can’t loan another dollar until you 
begin to clean up what you owe and get things 
in shape. I wish we didn’t have to, honestly, 
but we must protest Joe’s sight draft. I warned 
him myself the next time he drew on us in that 
way we could not honor his check/ 

‘That’d be a raw trick!’ blazed Mrs. Harvey. 

‘I’ve explained/ said Janet patiently, torn by 
the bitter disappointment she was causing. 

She rose quietly. Marie, caught by the note 
of pain and anger in her mother’s tone, crowded 
against her. Waking, Pearl began to fret. The 
two women might have been trying to converse 
from different stars. 

Janet knew that in Mrs. Harvey’s present 
mood discussion was useless. She held out her 
arms to take the baby while the mother put 
on her wraps. Then, quite unconscious of their 
faultless teamwork, the two pairs of practised 
hands rolled little Pearl in the heavy blanket. 
As the rose-petal cheek, so like her own little 
Gloria’s, restc/" Janet’s shoulder, she touche*? 


DREAMS AND COMPOUND INTEREST 63 

it tenderly with her lips. The movement, the 
look in her eyes, no mother could misunder¬ 
stand. Mrs. Harvey melted a trifle. 

‘It isn’t everyone she takes to like you. Here, 
Marie, give Mrs. Graham her pencil.' 

Marie clung to it. 

‘Oh, do let her keep it.' 

‘No,’ insisted Mrs. Harvey, ‘she’s got to learn 
to give up the things she wants. She may as 
well begin now.’ And as Janet opened the door 
for her, she added stiffly, ‘Good-bye.’ 

When it had closed behind them, Osborne 
asked, ‘Have a good talk?’ 

‘Yes,’ replied Janet wearily. ‘She came in 
about that check. Wanted to borrow a 
thousand.’ 

‘A thousand!’ Osborne fairly snorted. 

‘Oh, I made her understand she couldn’t have 
it,’ Janet assured him. ‘They’ll come to time. 
The compound interest will act as a spur. Jim, 
my heart aches for that woman.’ And to her¬ 
self she added, ‘Fanny Harvey, whom I thought 
like her stock, for whom there were so few 
problems—’ 

Janet went back to her desk, where, pushing 
aside the mortgages, she wrote hastily to Rob¬ 
ert, pouring forth her faith in his dreams and 
urging that between them they copld afford the 
three thousand. 


64 FIVE CENT POCKET SERIES 

Other Titles in Pocket Series 


Drama 

295 Master Builder. Ibsen. 
90 Mikado. Gilbert. 

31 Pelleas and Melisande 
Maeterlinck. 

316 Prometheus. Aeschylos. 
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Goldsmith. 

134 Misanthrope. Moliere. 
16 Ghosts. Ibsen. 

80 Pillars of Society 
Ibsen. 

46 Salome. Wilde. 

54 Importance of Being 
Earnest. Wilde. 

8 Lady Windermere’s 
Fan. Wilde. 

131 Redemption. Tolstoy. 

99 Tartuffe. Moliere. 

226 The Anti-Semites. 
Schnitzler. 

Shakespeare’s Plays 

359 The Man Shakespeare. 
Vol. 1 Frank Harris 

360 The Man Shakespeare. 
Vol. 2. Harris. 

361 The Man Shakespeare. 
Vol. 3. Harris. 

362 The Man Shakespeare. 
Vol. 4. Harris. 

240 The Tempest. 

"241 Merry Wives Windsor. 
242 As You Like It. 

2 43 Twelfth Night. 

"244 Much Ado Nothing. 

245 Measure for Measure 

246 Hamlet. 

247 Macbeth. 

24 8 King Henryv V. 

249 Julius CaesN'r. 

250 Romeo andiJub'at. 


251 Midsummer Night’s 
2 52 Othello. 

253 King Henry VIII. 

254 Taming of Shrew. 

255 King Lear. 

256 Venus and Adonis. 

257 King Henry IV. 

Part I 

258 King Henry IV. 

Part II. 

259 King Henry VI. 

Part I. 

2 60 King Henry VI. 

Part II. 

261 King Henry VI. 

Part III. 

262 Comedy of Errors. 

263 King John. 

264 King Richard in. 

265 King Richard n. 

267 Pericles. 

268 Merchant of Venice. 

Fiction 

307 Tillyloss Scandal. 

B arrie 

331 Finest Story in the 
World. Kipling. 

357 City of the Dreadful 
Night. Kipling. 

3 63 Higgles and Other 

•Stories. Harte. 

3 77 A Night in the Lux- 
embourg. Remy 
De Gourmont. 

336 The Mark of the 
Beast. Kipling. 

333 Mulvaney Stories. 
Kipling. 

188 Adventures of Baron. 
Munchausen. 

3 52 Short Stories. Win. 
Morris. 







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